


Tell Them I Was Happy

by where_havealltheflowers_gone



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Canon Rewrite, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flashbacks, Hospitals, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/where_havealltheflowers_gone/pseuds/where_havealltheflowers_gone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You love me and you’re gay.”</p>
<p>Mickey just looks at me, before nodding.  “Yeah, Gallagher, I know.  But that doesn’t change a fucking thing.” And he bolts, in true Milkovitch style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Them I Was Happy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after the spoilers aired for 03x09, and it's been on tumblr the whole time, so I decided it was good enough for my official collection. 
> 
> Keep in mind that I hadn't seen the actual episode yet, so there's a lot of divergence. 
> 
> And also, this might be triggering for some. Tread softly and enjoy.

(Ian’s POV)

I take a deep breath, and clutch the sink, looking at myself in the mirror. I immediately wish I hadn’t. My face is so fucked up, it makes me wince at the sight of it; more so from the swelling of the memories in my brain than from pain.

I replay the scene in my head:

_“You love me and you’re gay.”_

_Mickey just looks at me, before nodding._

_“Yeah, Gallagher, I know. But that doesn’t change a fucking thing.” And he bolts, in true Milkovitch style._

_I run after him, but switch directions when I realize talking sense into him will be futile. I head straight to the Milkovitch house. I burst in, Terry sitting propped up on the couch, watching TV. “What the fuck?” he yells, getting to his feet. Because I can’t think of a proper explanation, because my head is spinning in a flurry of needing to do something,_ anything _to protect Mickey, I swing. And I’m on my ass before my fist even connects._

I sigh, telling myself that Mickey’s right: nothing changes. But I know that’s not true; this changes everything. We’re done, and I know it.

A million things flash through my mind all at once, but strangely in slow motion:

_“I’ll meet you there in twenty.”_

_“Fuck VanDamme.”_

_“You wanna chitchat more, or you wanna get on me?”_

_“You fucking suck!”_

_“Jesus Christ, you wanna spread out a blanket and look for shooting stars next?”_

_“Say that again, and I’ll rip your tongue outta your head.”_

_“Liking what I like don’t make me a bitch.”_

_“Kiss me and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”_

_“I don’t know what you see in that geriatric viagroid.”_

_“Missed ya.”_

Everything comes at me, and I want to smash my head against the wall, shut out the memories and the feelings, but more come: the way he looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice; how there’s no venom in his voice when he insults me; the way he pants out my name when he’s going over the edge; how he mumbles ‘I love you’ in his sleep; the way he doesn’t really actually mind that I cuddle with him; his possessiveness; the feeling of his fingers digging into my neck when he kisses me.

I’m staring at myself in the mirror, gingerly touching the Terry-induced injuries. I look calm, my jaw set and eyes steady, but there’s a war going on just beneath the surface of my skin. My entire being screams for Mickey’s touch, a touch I know is long gone and won’t ever come back.

_“Yeah, Gallagher, I know. But it doesn’t change a fucking thing.”_

I drop my head, willing my mind to shut up. But it doesn’t.

_“You ready to go again, or you need some time, Firecrotch?”_

_“Oh, okay. So, uh, what you goin’ down for then?”_

_“That your grandpa?”_

_“You got any slim jims in this shithole?”_

I can’t get his blue eyes out of my head, or his pale skin or his smirk or the way his biceps ripple out of his muscle shirt or how he looks with a cigarette between his lips. I feel like my brain is screaming. I imagine myself hollering and throwing everything around me; ripping the sink from the wall, crashing it against the tiled floor. But I keep silent and motionless.

I breathe deeply again, picking up the knife I’d already commandeered from the kitchen. I slice into my arm. The pain is instantaneous, and I gasp loudly. But I’m determined for this to work, so I carve it down to the crook in my arm, opening a gash that’s insanely large. My skin suddenly feels like it’s on fire. I turn around, the edges of the world already blurring, and jerk the cold water on in the tub. Climbing in and laying down, fully clothed, I wait for the end.

I should’ve known I wouldn’t be so lucky.

Lip jerks open the door, “I gotta fucking piss, Ian, you can’t just-“ He spots me, and stops. He just stares and I look at him, even though he’s fuzzy and I’m nauseous and the pain is crazy now. I know I’m almost gone. “Fi, get the fuck in here!” he shouts out the door.

She comes in and I look up at her, pleading silently with her to just let me die. “Ian, what-“ She stops when she sees the arm. “Lip, go get V right now.” Lip doesn’t move, like he’s transfixed with what’s happening in front of him. “Now, Lip!” He runs out of the bathroom. Fiona immediately gets to work, shifting me so the water is flowing on my face instead of my legs and body.

“No,” I groan as a means of protest.

She looks at me, “We’re keeping you the fuck alive, Ian. What the hell happened?” I shake my head. “Tell me,” she says forcefully then adds a “please?”

I can’t handle the look in her eyes. “Mickey,” I choke on his name, the flashbacks still intense, even in my dulled state of mind, “We’re fucking. I love him. He’s getting married.” My breath is ragged. “He loves me.” The world starts to go dark.

“He loves me,” I repeat.

And then there’s nothing.

 

 

(Mickey’s POV)

Getting married. Fuck my dad. Fuck my life.

Wake up, drink, blackout, wake up; repeat.

Fuck my life.

If what I’m doing can be called living.

I expect Lip to come; expect him to bring some sort of weaponry. Because being Gallagher blood is different than being Milkovitch blood; Gallagher’s stick together, defend each other. Milkovitch’s run; that’s all we’re good for.

So, when Lip shows up, wielding a crow bar, I’m not even a little bit shocked. He opens his mouth before he swings- another Gallagher trait: talking non fucking stop- and that’s the part that shocks me. “Ian’s in a coma.” And then he swings, but I duck because I knew what he was gonna do. Gallagher’s are predictable. I reach out my hand, grab the crow bar and jerk hard. That’s all it takes, he relinquishes his hold.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask.

“Ian,” he yells at me, “You know, the guy you’ve been fucking for the past two years? Or have you already forgotten in all the wedding day excitement?”

“Fuck you,” I say back, but I don’t raise my voice.

“Whatever. Fiona said you wouldn’t care, but I wanted you to know. If he fucking dies, I’m coming after you.”

I look up abruptly. “What the fuck even happened?” I ask, ready to take on whatever fag basher did this.

“He slit his arm open. Slit his arm open, because the neighborhood thug- who he just so happens to love- is getting fucking married to some whore.” He’s yelling again, “It’s all your fucking fault.” He spits at me, and then he turns to go.

“I know.” I say to him and he faces me again. “I know it’s all my fault.”

He sighs. “Good.”

“Where is he?”

“Wouldn’t your wife be opposed to you visiting your ex-lover?” he scoffs.

“She’s not my wife,” I say evenly, “And he’s not my ex.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “He’s at Mercy. Third floor, fifth door on the left.” I nod, and then he’s gone.

 

(Ian’s POV)

It’s like being asleep, except I can hear most of what’s going on around me: the machine’s beeping, the voices of my family, even Mandy’s voice is present here and there.

I keep searching for that familiar rough grumble. But I’m not sure how many days I had to wait before I finally hear it. “Mickey?” I hear Mandy say, and everything in me lights up, but not in a happy way; it’s fucking painful, like someone lit a match in my soul.

“Yeah,” he says. There’s an eerie silence as everyone breathes in the fact that Mickey Milkovitch, the reason I’m lying in this bed, has come to see me.

“You want a minute with him?” I hear Fiona ask. Bless her.

“Can he hear me?” he asks. The machine that indicates my heartbeat starts beeping faster, and everyone chuckles.

“He definitely knows you’re here somehow,” Lip says.

I hear them all leave and I feel Mickey’s presence towering over me. I know he’s probably peering at my face. I remember my bruises and feel self-conscious. Then I remember he didn’t know I had them, and feel guilty. “Gallagher,” he whispers and I feel a hand on my forehead. Just like that, everything that was burning inside me cools down and I breathe out a sigh. He slides the hand down my face, ghosting over my injuries. He removes it just as I’m wishing I could nuzzle into his touch. Everything is still for a moment and I’m wondering if he left. I feel lips on my own. It’s gentle and sweet, and I’m trying to force my eyes open or my lips forward; anything so he knows I can feel it. “I’m sorry,” he breathes against my mouth, “I love you.”

And just like that, my eyes pop open all on their own. “

Mick?” I croak out. And he springs back in surprise, a million emotions splashing across his face in a second. “Ian!” he yells, an actual smile lighting up his face. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

But then I remember that Mickey’s smile doesn’t belong to me anymore. And I feel bile rushing up my throat and tears pushing at the back of my pupils. “Go home to your wife.” I sputter, “And your baby.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a wife.”

“You will soon enough,” I spit, refusing to meet his eyes. I peek around him at the door, “Where’s my family?”

“Will you listen to me?” he barks. “The kid isn’t mine.”

My world stops. Not Mickey’s; the kid isn’t Mickey’s. Which means Mickey doesn’t have to get married. And if Mickey isn’t getting married, that means he’s mine.

Mickey is mine.

Mickey is mine.

**Mickey is mine.**

I wish I could jump and scream and laugh and cry and hug him and fuck him and kiss him and tell him that he’s never allowed to ever fucking do this ever again. But I don’t have the strength for it, so I just smile in a way that I’m sure is sloppy. “You’re sure?”

He smiles back. “One hundred percent.” And he closes the space between us, kissing me hard, but still slightly gentle. My family picks this moment to burst in. There’s screaming and tears, and I can’t remember ever being happier.

 

 

(Mickey’s POV)

Later, still in Ian’s room, when everyone but he and I are asleep, I whisper the question that’s been bothering me into the darkness because I know that this is the only time I’ll be brave enough to ask, when I can’t see his face: “How did you know?”

He blows out a breath and shifts slightly so he’ll be face to face with me as he’s lying in my arms. “You gave me the gun back.” He says.

I think back to that first day. “That long?” I question. I feel him nod.

“Yeah, Mick, that long.” I tip my head back to rest it on the wall behind his bed. “So, how long have you…?” I trail off, not wanting to sound like a fag.

He chuckles. “Since about three seconds before that.” He says.

I nod and pull him closer, liking the way his head seems to fit perfectly under my chin. “I’m yours,” I whisper before I realize I’m going to. It’s something I’ve been meaning to let him know.

“I know, Mick.” He kisses my neck and snuggles against me, drifting off to sleep. Right before he’s unconscious, he groggily mumbles, “You always have been.”


End file.
